


The Jeweller

by shittershutter



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 20:53:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4236243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shittershutter/pseuds/shittershutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You old fuck,” Chibs hears though their ragged breathing and it sort of sounds like “I do”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Jeweller

**Author's Note:**

> * Unbetad

The Jeweller comes to town on a specially hot day, and Chibs is too busy trying to take the leather pants out of his ass crack to notice the arrival. 

Good half of Samcro gathers around his wooden chest, gushing like virgins on their first village dance, and looks through the albums and the sketches, while the traveler takes advantage of drinks on the house, ice melting into his cartoonish white beard like it belongs there. 

“100% handmade, man. Every design is unique,” The Jeweller tells Chibs, thinking that maybe the potential customer’s face exhibits distrust for the quality. 

In reality though, Chibs plays with a few sample rings, incredibly intricate skulls with snakes, crows, wolves and the whole Animal Planet around them, and likes them a lot. He thinks that Juice would go as far as loving those. And by pure inertia, it leads him to the idea that he should get his man one. Then he’s completely floored by the implication of that theoretical act and needs a few moments to get his facial muscles moving.

He ends up taking The Jeweller’s card, surprised to see the man has a proper name and allows the thought to rattle inside his skull for a few weeks. 

Sometimes it’s quiet, soothing, whispering to him that it’s better to leave things the way they are. 

That chunk of the brain that’s responsible for human connection is all fucked up inside Juice’s head, scratched, bitten, squeezed dry and turned upside down. Chibs has torn his own out and threw it away for the wild dogs to chew the day his family was taken away from him.

But it regenerated and grew back, like a lizard's tail. So sometimes that thought is restless and loud, and it screams at him to do it, to give them what they both need. Like so many times before, for better or worse, he follows the voice that is angry and loud. 

When they lie in bed one night, Juice all boneless and messy, with come drying on his chin, it looks like a beautiful moment to fuck them both up some more. 

Chibs looks his boy straight in the eye, holding that shaky gaze, and swallows his ring finger down. He coats it with saliva, good and proper, and slips the ring on. The fucking thing gets stuck around the second knuckle anyway, sending a jolt of hot white panic down Chibs’ guts because there’s suddenly room for Juice to yank his hand away. And it’s not the blow Chibs’ pride can digest, not at all. But Juice doesn’t move. He doesn’t seem to breathe, for the matter, but at least they have this moment of stillness for the act to register. 

Chibs kisses the hand then, the ring, putting the fingers carefully into a fist. He presses that fist to the center of his own chest where his heart is drumming fast against the old meat and rubs his thumb softly across the skin.

“Breathe, Juicy,” he says. He thinks he does, at least, with his throat so dry that every sound scratches against it. Juice trembles before he breathes and leans in, latching his mouth to Chibs’ cold and tense lips, warming and opening them up. 

“You old fuck,” Chibs hears through their ragged breathing and it sort of sounds like “I do.”

In reality, Juice agrees to have and to hold a worn out heart with an almost medieval code of loyalty and some awkward tenderness that is saved only for him, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s used to having it, anyway. 

They lie in each other’s arms until that fragile and too complex for words moment passes, both too scared to shoo it away with a loud breath or a sharp move. Then Juice asks, dead serious if Chibs minds to get his dick sucked again now, before the wedding night, because, you know, Juan Carlos is a proper young man, not some kind of a harlot -- he knows them social norms and shit.

Chibs laughs at him with all the relief of the world in that throaty sound, whacking his stupid bald head, and pushes him on his back because he’s quite in the mood to suck some himself. 

But Juice resists, shoulders and knees up, and it takes Chibs a moment to realize that without a ring of his own the boy’s about to show commitment and trust as he turns around and gets himself on hands and knees, ass up and head down. 

It’s not how they do it, ever, thanks to the long string of douchebags who came before and broke the boy for good. He doesn’t submit so fully, doesn’t turn his back even in an intimate setting like this, and Chibs really wishes he’d been sober to appreciate the moment more than he does, more than he’s able to at the moment. 

He can see Juice’s thighs trembling, and he rubs his palms over them, chasing the vibration up the spine. 

“Baby boy...” he whispers. And it’s going to be his final line, the last anguished pull of the heart he can verbalize before he falls forward and presses his mouth to the back of Juice’s exposed neck. 

He mouths the skin, sweet and salty, until Juice looks over his shoulder, daring him to make it count. He pushes himself up, pressing his back firmly to Chibs’ chest, his ass flush against the man’s dick and chases the last doubts away. 

Chibs sucks on his own fingers, rubbing them across the loose muscle he did a good job stretching earlier. It’s still greedy and slick as he thrusts forward, and Juice sighs blissfully, holding onto one of his wrists, as he slips in. 

They fuck slowly -- Chibs, with all honesty, is too fucking old for the real brutality twice a night. Juice doesn’t mind -- he likes the whole act of it, with the foreplay and the afterglow and the prolonged intimacy between them. He takes Chibs’ hand and slides it over his dick when he’s ready. He guides him through, wet against his palm, and he lets himself moan when he usually doesn’t, loud and fulfilled. 

He doesn’t let Chibs pull out though, not until it gets nasty and he absolutely has to. 

“I’m getting you one, as well, you know that,” Juice says later, studying the ring, animals, and skulls dancing in front of his face. Chibs just chuckles, stroking his fingers across the hole he’s fucked, warm and used. 

“Then,” Juice continues, “I’ll tell you I love you for real, and you’ll do your best not to freak the fuck out the way you do.”

Chibs mumbles something in agreement and gives his boy a real wedding kiss, the one you share when you’re squeezed between the priest and the cake, to shut him up until the morning.


End file.
